


Saint's Progress

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Adrenaline, Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Danger, Death, Drunkenness, Exhaustion, Family, Fights, Gen, Gunplay, Guns, Handcuffs, Hangover, Injury, Pain, Police, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Restraints, Siblings, Sleep, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veritas et aequitas. He is truth and Murphy is justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint's Progress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mjules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjules/gifts).



> Written for mjules.

Connor MacManus is convinced he is walking on water. Why else would his steps be so faltering? His body aches, a dull pain in his muscles that the alcohol hasn't been able to ease, and the recent fight is still jittering in his nerves.

The Russians may have swaggered in thinking it would be easy to intimidate Doc enough to give up the bar without a fight, but they were wrong, so wrong.

It's the best St. Patrick's Day fight he's been involved in for years.

 

As soon as Connor slumps back onto his makeshift bed and closes his eyes, the world tilts gently out from under him. He hears Murphy talk to him or to himself, softly mutter something he doesn't care about. He's had too much, both of them have, and it's nothing short of a miracle that Murphy is still so steady on his feet and that both of them made it back to the loft in one piece. His eyes, still closed, burn lightly, and he sees shadowplay on the insides of his lids as something or someone blocks the light.

The world reels even faster when the mattress dips and something warm and bony drops onto him. A slow low voice, heavy with drink, slurs something directly into his ear. He can't tell what it is, but that doesn't matter.

"Feck off," he murmurs back, pushing at Murphy and earning himself an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. He's too tired and too drunk to open his eyes, and breathes a sigh of relief when the mattress shifts again as Murphy gets up. There's a scrape of boots on the concrete, then a creak of springs and flutter of sheets as a drunken body hits the other mattress.

After that, the dark is very deep and warm and without dreams.

When he wakes up, even opening his eyes makes him sick. Sitting up makes the world spin like a crazy carousel for a second before it stops and the headache sets in.

He leans forward, over the space separating the mattresses that lie directly on the floor, and draws his fingertip across Murphy's forehead. A hand comes up, swatting at his, and there's a slow mumble of something. It's funny, really, how Murphy could sleep through a céilí going on around him, but as soon as Connor touches his face, he wakes.

Laughter, even a snicker, turns out to be a bad idea. Connor sits on the edge of the mattress with his head between his knees, trying not to let his skull shatter as his pulse beats in his temples with sickening regularity, like church bells made of solid pain.

There is worse pain waiting for him.

There is the sound of lock bolts snapping, and his body reacts much faster than his head. He rises, much too fast, but that is all he has time to do.

Gunmetal, literal gun metal, hits him so hard and so fast that he drops like a sack of bricks. He doesn't get to lie for long, because a livid Russian is already hauling him up by the scruff of his neck and shoving him forward. "You know why I fucking come here? I come here to kill you." Broken English, the same broken English he heard yesterday, just before McGinty's hosted a free-form fistfight and Russian barbecue.

Connor quickly realizes that being pitched forward, chest hitting the toilet bowl nearly hard enough to knock the wind out of him isn't even half as bad as hearing the malicious hiss in his ear: "But now, I don't think I'll fucking kill you. I'll kill your brother. Shoot him in the head."

The hangover disappears in a second, dissolved by sheer panic and anger. He looks up, tries to get up, but the movement is halted by the handcuffs that hold him fettered to the toilet. A fucking toilet. You have to hand it to the Russians, they know how to humiliate you. He swears at them in their own language, tells them what they can do to their mothers and sisters, anything to win enough time to get loose and free Murphy. They don't fall for it. Instead, they grab Murphy, drag him along the floor and out into the corridor, and Connor knows what the gleam in their eyes means. It means they're serious.

He doesn't know where the strength comes from. Maybe it's adrenaline filling his veins like quicksilver, maybe it's God aiding his servant. Maybe it's the Virgin Mary, who for all her meekness isn't above a right good fight. He doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is getting Murphy back.

The skin of his wrists chafes, then splits into bracelets and ribbons of raw flesh, blood pouring over the backs of his hands until he's gloved with it. Still no yield. No matter how hard he pulls, he can't free himself. The hard metal feels like it's resting against bone now, grating on nerves until fireworks of synapses turn his wrists and arms into Roman candles of pain.

His forehead is slick with cold sweat, and his jaw clenches around the growl building in his throat. He thinks he hears Murphy yell in pain, hears it not with his ears but with some part of his soul, and that tears it. He lunges up, blind with fear and hatred, screaming like a banshee, and dimly hears bolts snap and porcelain shatter. He stumbles, holding the bowl like some giant deformed porcelain infant, then sets course for the fire escape.

He doesn't think about what he is doing. There's no time.

The road rises up to meet him, just like in the blessing, but he's not lucky at all. 

He's only dimly aware of being hoisted up from the ground, and only really comes to after being hauled in an unmild fireman's carry for what feels like miles. As soon as Murphy realizes he's conscious again, he gets dropped onto the nearest bench. Every square inch of him hurts. The insides of his eyelids, his throat, his ribs, his ankles. Even his hair hurts, for fuck's sake. When he gets up again, he leans on Murphy, lets himself be held upright, because his body is really starting to feel the combined strain of all his injuries.

And how fucking ironic is it that after being saved, Murphy has to drag his saviour around? 

When they arrive at the police station and limp inside to turn themselves in, the single FBI agent among all the cops sticks out like sore thumb. His features are sharp and at the same time sunken, and when he looks at them from under his brows, Connor is struck by how the man looks like the gaunt Jesus on the cross. And Agent Paul Smecker ends up being their saviour.

They're given a holding cell to sleep in, coffee and cigarettes, and Rocco shows up with their proper clothes and rosaries. Blessing after blessing.

Connor's body is still aching when the evening rolls around, and even though the bed is narrow and hard, he falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He wakes suddenly, brutally shaken awake by the ice-pick sensation of droplets of water striking his forehead. As soon as he opens his eyes, he sees only white, his ears ringing with prayer and familiar voices, the strength of them vibrating through his muscles and pulling him upward, his body forced up off the mattress. When he turns his head, he looks straight into Murphy's eyes, which glitter in the dim light with the fire of the same conviction he feels. The rosary around his neck is glow-hot, just like his blood, and he can't find words when he tries to speak. Not that they need words.

_Destroy that which is evil  
So that which is good may flourish_

Did they ever speak those words? He can't tell, and even though his veins are full of fire and adrenaline, simple exhaustion makes him buckle and fall. Fall deep down, back into the darkness.

When he wakes up again, pale light is already sifting into the cell. He sits up and meets Murphy's gaze, the very familiar pale gunmetal gaze, and it hooks him as it always does. There's no need to voice the question, both of them know it. _Do we take the path chosen for us?_ This is serious. His lips part, but he doesn't know what he wants to say, and the silence in the cell grows in his ears.

Veritas et aequitas. He is truth and Murphy is justice, and why does he waver when his twin is so sure?

He lifts his hand, brushing it across his chest in half a sign of the cross before settling it on his own neck, right over the tattoo. He doesn't know if he does it to touch the picture of the Virgin Mary in a plea for help or if he is covering it to keep his conscience silent. It's his call to decide. He's the sensible one, has always been, and he'll claim 'til he's blue in the face that he's the older one. He should decide, but he can't, he only hesitates while sense and faith battle.

In the end, technology chooses for him. A high, irritating sound snaps him out of his reverie. The Russian's beeper. As he takes it from Murphy and squints at the tiny display, pieces click into place with a speed that startles him. Yes. Destroy that which is evil.

They're called the Boston Saints now. He doesn't stop to think about how many saints are martyrs, because they two of them aren't dead yet. They play by ear, by heart, and it works so well it almost scares him. It's beginning to look like a true calling.

All until they move too far up in the hierarchy.

He knew something was wrong as soon as they entered the basement, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but this was a different kind of wrong. Not just "Fuck, we didn't count on this", but something darker that rose in him until it flickered around the edges of his vision.

It didn't leave, but gnawed at him, ripped and bit at his already fraying nerves, but he ignored it and went against that instinct.

Fatal mistake.

They walked right into it. He can't remember much of it now, only screaming until his throat hurt, with blood stinging his eyes and running into his mouth, mingling with gunpowder salter than blood. Salter than the tears that striped his face as he raged at Rocco's death, at the shot that still rings in his ears like an endless scream.

He can't even be scared any longer, because his body seems to have used up every single ounce of adrenaline long ago. His sense of time is shot to hell, and he no longer counts hours or minutes, only shock after shock. Thinking about all the wounds he has only makes them ache more, and he pushes the thought out of his mind.

His hands shake as he digs in his pockets for pennies and comes up empty. He looks at Murphy, lifts his bloodied mangled hands in something that looks like a shrug. Murphy's hands close over his, pressing a coin into each palm. His eyes are rimmed with red, tear-red and blood-red, but there's something calm there. This is part of it, part of what they must do and must live through. Connor looks down at his hands, and sees the single word shine through the blood. Veritas. Truth.

The truth hurts.

He presses one of the pennies into Murphy's hand, because he can't do this alone.

They've propped Rocco up again, tried to arrange his limbs in a posture more dignified than the sprawl the gunshot had forced him into. The concrete floor is cold and hard where they kneel, and they bend their heads, both in reverence and to be avoid seeing Rocco's blood-smeared face, now slack in death.

"Shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand--"

There are some sounds you learn to hear even under other noise. The sound of a gun being cocked is one of them. Both of them act entirely on muscle memory, in perfect sync, bringing up their own guns as they turn.

"...that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth unto Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be..." The voice, keen like steel and ice, stirs shadows to life, vague tendrils of childhood memory uncoiling in Connor's mind. He can hear Murphy's breath quickening.

Connor's grip on his gun loosens and his muscles slacken as his brain tries to take it all in. He can't move, can only watch the tall man cross the floor to them with long measured steps, watch how he holsters his guns with precise movements. When he reaches out toward them, neither of them flinch, and Connor knows Murphy has realized the same thing.

These are their father's hands. The hands of God, tipping their heads up to force them to see, to look into the face still obscured by cap and dark glasses.

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._

The father, the sons... and their holy vengeance.


End file.
